


the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh

by liliaeth



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Dom/sub, M/M, not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29425218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliaeth/pseuds/liliaeth
Summary: in a world where your fate in life is decided by your dynamic as either a Dominant or a Submissive, Nicolò has to put his life in Yusuf's hands after the fall of Jerusalem, pretending he's a Submissive to Yusuf's Dominant so they can travel through lands that would otherwise see Nicolò as the enemy.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78
Collections: D/s JoeNicky Event





	the weapons of our warfare are not of the flesh

**Author's Note:**

> At the start of the fic, Nicolo will be using the term Saracen, though this is a slur, it's the word he'd use at this point in time. He'll learn better as the fic continues.

Yusuf wasn’t even sure what he was doing, taking the invader with him. He should have left the man behind after the Franks took the city, but when he’d seen the look on the Christian’s face, that thousand mile stare in the other’s eyes, he’d been unable to do so. There had been a plea in the way he knelt there, not even reaching for a weapon, though he and Yusuf had killed each other dozens of times by now. Almost as if he wanted Yusuf to kill him. That might have been why he stayed his blade at first, that notion that he couldn’t give the other what he wanted, not after what the Franks had done. But then he’d seen the man’s eyes and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from feeling pitty for him.

He knew the other was a Dominant. Barbarians though they were, even the Franks didn’t allow Submissives into their armies. It wasn’t that Submissives couldn’t fight. If Yusuf had ever felt that way, his Submissive older brother would have soon taught him the error of his ways. It’s just… Submissives had a need to please that made it hard for them to tell the difference between their own desires and the desires of the Dominants around them. They had needs that made them vulnerable around a raging army brimming with adrenaline. And it was far too easy to take advantage of that.

The Frank had looked so devastated that the Dominant in Yusuf had come out, filling him with concern and a sense of protectiveness that felt utterly out of place considering their situation..

The man hadn’t said a word since they left the city, and Yusuf hadn’t wanted to think about the blood on the man’s armor, covering his tunic and face. He didn’t want to think about whose blood it was, had it been from soldiers trying to defend their city? Men trying to protect their wives and children? Or was it the blood of innocents. Yusuf knew that he couldn’t keep travelling with the man if he wouldn’t like the answer and he so desperately didn’t want to be alone. Why would Allah make this man the only other person who understood this curse?

They didn’t talk as they walked through the desert, staying far away from any route that either the Christian army or Fatimid reinforcements might take. The heat was nigh unbearable, and he praised Allah when they finally found a stream. The fresh water felt like a blessing on his lips, and he cleansed himself before falling in prayer for the first time in days.

He turned around and saw the Frank sitting on his knees, his eyes closed as his hands rested on the ground. Yusuf wanted to dunk him in the stream to get rid of the stench clinging to the man and to get some water into him. But he wasn’t sure if the man was even fully aware of his surroundings

Yusuf finally filled his waterskin and threw it at the Frank. It seemed to be just enough to rouse him out of whatever state he was in, and he looked almost desperate as he brought it to his lips, taking a few sips before he just sat there holding it. Yusuf had to take it back from him before they moved on, and the Frank didn’t fight him for it.

When they finally managed to reach a town a few days later, Yusuf barely managed to stop him back from entering. Leaving him behind at the campfire with the waterskin while Yusuf climbed down the hill and into the town. The way the Frank looked, they’d be too scared of more of his countryman coming to pillage what little they had left.

When Yusuf entered the town, with his clothes disheveled and covered in dust, people stared at him, hesitating and switching between suspicion and curiosity. The merchants asked him for news, but he found himself unable to speak, his grief paralyzed him. “Al-Quds fell,” was all he managed to say.

It filled people around him with sympathy. He knew it was the reason why he managed to sell a knife he’d taken off an enemy soldier in exchange for far more supplies than he’d have been able to get otherwise. He hadn’t even been able to bring himself to insist on a higher price, though he had told the man it wasn’t worth what the man was willing to give him for it. The blade was still rusty with his own blood. The merchant didn’t ask him about it.

The Dominant had merely patted him on the back. “Soon we might all be refugees, how would Allah look upon me then, if I cannot offer kindness now.”

Yusuf wanted to beg him for forgiveness for taking advantage of the man’s piety and kindness. Especially knowing there was a Frank waiting just outside of town who’d benefit from these supplies.

“My brother-in-law lived in Al-Quds, he took my sister there last year when the Fatimid took over. They needed good craftsmen, and he was one of the finest in our town. I have not heard from her since. I pray that if she still lives, that someone would be kind to her, if she were in need of aid.”

Yusuf couldn’t talk about the slaughter he’d seen before he left the city, the unlikeliness that anyone inside the walls had survived the carnage. But he had need of supplies, and he could not bring himself to reject them a second time.

He grabbed the bag with supplies and was just about to set out to return to the Frank, when he heard the sound of hooves heading toward the town market. He joined the rest of the town’s people in the market square, curious to see what was going on, when he quickly took a step back.

It was a group of Fatimid soldiers. That in and of itself was not the worst part. There were bound to be some troops in the area, as the city had been waiting for reinforcements. The problem was who they were dragging along behind them. His Frank.

The man was even dirtier than before Yusuf had left him, his hair tangled with clumps of dirt, his beard covered in mud. The tunic over his armor was torn and filthy. As his captors stopped, the Frank crawled up to his feet. His neck was bent down as one of his captors slapped the back of his head and , forced him to his knees using his chains, kicking him down in the dirt. Yusuf couldn’t even tellhow much of the blood covering the man was new.

That was when the soldiers told the town’s people about what had happened at Jerusalem. To the men that had left to help defend the city. To their neighbors and possibly even their family that had either lived in the city or sought shelter there. Yusuf saw tears in the eyes of the man that had offered him kindness and wished he could do something to take his pain from him.

You could almost feel the rancor rising in the crowd. And Yusuf, who hadn’t fully allowed himself to grasp just what had happened in the city, in between the time that he’d made his truce with the Frank, and when they’d met up afterwards, felt overcome with guilt. How could he have possibly travelled with one of those monsters? No matter what they shared in common.

But that’s when he saw the Frank’s face, the way he didn’t even struggle or protest as the soldiers handled him. Where you’d expect to see anger, or even fear, there was nothing but acceptance as if he was ready to die right then and there.

The soldiers tore off the Franks tunic, pulled his armor over his head and threw it to the side as they cut the shirt protecting his skin off of his back until they left him in nothing but his brais. Yusuf winced at how thin the man was, mere flesh over bones. Even after the siege, the people in the city had not looked like this man did now. You could practically count the ribs, and see his spine in between… Yusuf gasped as he saw the long healed scarring of whip marks. Marks like that…you didn’t get those from casually playing with a whip, not in a loving relationship, nor from a parental Dominant teaching their child some discipline. At least not with a Dominant that cared even the slightest bit about his Submissive. It was the kind of scars you’d see on a slave with a Master too cruel to feed or care for his property.

The soldiers seemed to hesitate for a moment. Yusuf could see the struggle between their anger and their sympathy, even as the anger won out. The captain hesitated as he gave his orders and pulled out a crop, ready to let the Frank be a message to his people. Something they could send as a message to the invaders, that they weren’t conquered yet. And Yusuf knew what would happen. They’d punish the Frank with the crop, and then the scars would heal, and someone would notice.

Cries of demon would go out.

Even if they didn’t pay enough attention for that, they’d figure it out when they tried to kill the Frank, and discovered he would not die..

And no matter what Yusuf himself might think about what the Frank did or did not deserve, if these men found out about his inability to die, then things would get far worse. Because once they started looking for Demons, how long would it take before they found him as well?

He took a step forward before he could stop himself.

“Wait!” He yelled, trembling as he suddenly became the center of attention. The soldiers glared at him. He swallowed before taking another step forward. “Please, listen, you’re making a mistake.”

He knew that doing this could get him killed, exposed. That it could turn the entire town against him. But he’d made his choice.

“Explain yourself.” The captain said,

Yusuf greeted him with respect, and tried to compose himself as he did so.

“This Frank he’s… I met him a few days ago. After he deserted their troops at Al Quds.”

That obviously wasn’t enough.

“He’s a Submissive. He barely talks, but that much I got out of him on our way here. His parents felt ashamed of their son’s nature, so he was forced to pass for Dominant, and forced to join their army. He left when they tried to make him a killer. You know how Submissives are when it comes to war.”

It was a lie. An old folk tale that traditionalists liked to take as true. Believing that Submissives inherently were too soft to stand up for themselves or others. Too weak for the arts of Dominants. The soldiers knew that the Franks had only recently received reinforcements, added troops that had not seen much battle before they arrived. It was easy to assume that his Frank was one of them.

But from the way the soldiers pulled back and stared at the Frank, it was clear they were willing to accept his words for true. The scars on the man’s back probably helped support his claim.

“He did refuse to fight back when we found him.” one of the soldiers said. “He was armed, but he did not even lift his sword.”

The soldier’s captain grabbed the Frank’s head, lifted it up, and forced the Frank to look at him. “Is that the truth, boy?”

The Frank didn’t answer, he just stared up at him with those same empty eyes. Not in fear, filled in horror. It seemed to be enough to break through even the captain’s anger.

“Filthy Franks. What monsters would make a Submissive shed blood.” He let the Frank sink back down to his knees, and gently patted his head.

“You said you found him.”

“Yes, as I was leaving Jerusalem, after the city fell.” Yusuf let himself be overcome with sorrow. “I barely got out alive, I wasn’t sure what to do, I considered going back to fight. But… I was only one man, and what good could one man do against the slaughter inside the walls. They murdered everyone I knew, the entire unit I was fighting alongside with. I went back home before I left the city, to my brother’s house, they were all dead. The men, the women, the children, even their animals.”

The captain nodded. Yusuf wasn’t a soldier, he was a merchant. He’d tried to help when the Frankish army had arrived, but when it came down to it, he had given no oaths to anyone.

“What is your name?”

“Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammed al Kaysani called Al-Tayib.”

“Then tell me Al-Tayib, do you take responsibility for this Submissive?”

Yusuf stared at the Frank, knowing he couldn’t let one of the others have him. Because the moment he did, someone would find out the truth.

“I will.”

*******

He had no idea who he was anymore. When he left he’d been so prideful. Nicolò, third son and fifth legitimate child of Stefano and his bride, the honorable Lucia. Member of an old and noble family. He’d been meant for the church, had been trained and prepared to join the priesthood. Even as his sins kept dragging him down, making him shed seed in the night, dreaming of people that should not tempt him. Making him want to bend, when he knew he should be above that.

When he found pleasure in his punishment rather than atonement, and the priests had to teach him over and over again how wrong his very being was.

When the Holy Father had called them to arms, it had literally felt like a calling from the Lord himself. A chance to shed his sinful self, and martyr himself in God’s name, earning a place in heaven.

Except… for all that their cause was supposed to be just, the reality of it all… had been the exact opposite.

The images kept flashing in his mind. Watching men he’d broken bread with, men whose backs he’d guarded, with whom he’d shared jokes, songs, and stories with over the campfire, men he’d cared about… watching those men drag children out of their parent’s arms, murdering babies, and then raping their mothers before their bodies were even cold. To see Submissives desperately cry out as their Dominants were murdered in front of them, pleading for mercy for their loved ones before they too were slaughtered. To watch holy places set ablaze, covered in the blood of the people who’d desperately sought sanctuary..

This was supposed to be a pilgrimage, a holy and just war, but what could possibly be just about the slaughter of innocents to the point that the streets were covered in blood and guts. Nicolò had tried to stop them, had tried to cover women and children with his body. Begging them to show mercy in the name of Christ and the Saints, his own brothers in arms had killed him, pushed him aside and murdered the innocents he’d desperately tried to protect. Over and over he rose back up, and they called him a demon, trying to lead them astray.

It worked just enough to let some of the people he’d tried to protect get away… for now. He prayed they’d gotten out of the city, but he feared for them. And all he could think of was the blood on his hands, his blade. The men, the soldiers he’d killed, who’d been trying to defend their city, their people. How many of them had just been scared and rightfully so for the sake of the innocents behind their walls?

He begged the Lord for answers, begged Him to be allowed to die, and if not, to tell him why he’d been banned from heaven. But there had been no answers, either from below or above.

He’d been so busy trying to be righteous, to be the big strong Dominant his father had always demanded his sons to be, that he’d closed his eyes to the suffering they’d caused.

By the time the soldiers captured him, Nicolò hadn’t wanted to shed their blood. What if doing so cost more innocent lives? What right did he have to defend himself when they couldn’t kill him? They were justified, weren’t they? All the innocents dead because of people like him, because of him. They dragged him along, the few miles to the town, but any injury it caused was healed before he even got back to his feet. The soldiers didn’t care, too angry, too lost in their grief and shame to pay him more attention than making sure he couldn’t fight back. They tore off his armor, the lack of it’s familiar weight almost a relief. He prayed quietly, begging the Lord God for forgiveness that he knew he was unworthy of.

How could God have been with them, God was supposed to be kind and merciful, but what merciful God would stand for the murder of children. The priests defended it with the words of the Old Testament. “ _Now go and strike Amalek and devote to destruction all that they have. Do not spare them, but kill both man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey_.’” But weren’t Christ's words supposed to stand before those of all the other prophet in his new Testament?

 _“Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good_.” Yet they had done the first, and forsaken the second.

He could see his enemy standing among the crowd. His Saracen, his foe, his destiny, who’d granted him mercy when he deserved it the least. When the man spoke up to protect him, his dignity should have made him proclaim the man’s lies, to deny, and pretend the other was wrong. Even knowing it was the only protection the man would be able to give him. His honor should make him resist, but after all he’d done, what honor did he have left?

Nicolo didn’t expect the man to do anything, he just prayed the other was safe. That the man’s people wouldn’t harm him for choosing to bestow mercy upon one as unworthy as Nicolò himself.

When he heard his enemy state his name, he didn’t know what to say about that. When the soldiers asked Al Tayib a question, and the man agreed, Nicolò didn’t know what to say to that either.


End file.
